


Dark-alley Boy

by Plutonic_5



Series: Let Me Take You On A Ride [8]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Discussion of Abortion, Drug Dealing, F/M, Gun Violence, Happy Ending? Not really, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kidnapping, Murder, Orphanage, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Semi-Public Sex, Stalking, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Drug Use, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plutonic_5/pseuds/Plutonic_5
Summary: "The boy walked down the dark street, cheap shoes splashing filthy water from the puddles the rain had left behind. His untied shoelaces flopped under the sole of his foot, the hem of his torn blue jeans stained."





	Dark-alley Boy

**Author's Note:**

> A dive into the past, for this tragically wonderful AU. Thank you all so much for staying with me through this, this really changed me in ways I can't even begin to explain.
> 
> A special thanks to [Sasha](trashcansasha.tumblr.com), my best friend who figure this whole thing out with me! Go check their art out, they're truly amazing.

The boy walked down the dark street, cheap shoes splashing filthy water from the puddles the rain had left behind. His untied shoelaces flopped under the sole of his foot, the hem of his torn blue jeans stained.

Cold hands on his pockets, his jet black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, rain and grease from not washing it for a week hid beneath the hood of the black, old hoodie that fell a little too big over his too skinny frame. He turned around corners that smelled like piss and weed— not that he smelled much better himself. 

“You stink,” a voice called him out at the end of a dead-end street.

His brown eyes looked up, not a single trace of emotion on them as usual. “Got any joes?” He asked, not that it was really a question. The idiot always had cigarettes.

Lucky, a bulk guy with a stupid red bandana over his head, threw a pack of smokes at the boy's direction, of which he caught without even battling an eye. He took a loosey out of the box, and lit it up with his own lighter on his pocket. He held the cigarette between his thin, long fingers, and sulked in a big gulp of nicotine before puffing it out in a breath.

“Why did you come back, kid?” Lucky asked, leaning against a rusty metal door that most couldn’t even see at the end of the street. He smelled strongly of alcohol as always.

“I’m not a kid,” the boy said, the smoke around him almost making him feel decent. “I need cash.”

Lucky huffed. “We all do.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Unless you’re down to sell that dirty ass of yours, you’ve come to the wrong place,” the man smirked.

The boy rolled his eyes, walking up to the man and throwing his half-finished dart on a nearby puddle.

“That’s a waste,” Lucky chided.

“You’re a waste,” he retorted, stepping the man aside to push the rusty door open. “Of my time.”

An arm was thrown in front of him, denying his access. The boy glanced at Lucky. “Let me in.”

“Amsel,” the man rumbled, pushing the teen backwards violently. “You need to leave.”

Amsel glared at him. “You need to fuck off,” he said, taking the pocket knife he had tucked on his underwear. He launched forward quickly, slashing Lucky on the arm.

“Fuck!” He cursed, grabbing the boy's wrist and pulling him down, bending his hand in a sharp crack. Amsel cried out, trying to bump the bigger man with his shoulder, only to have his head banged against the concrete wall Lucky has leaned against.

Amsel tried to ready himself for the impact to no avail. His nose smashed in a sickening snap, blood dripping down to his mouth. He shrugged Lucky off, and stumbled to the floor, sitting down on the sidewalk.

“You fucking suck,” he said, voice lisped due his broken nose. 

Lucky frowned at the cut on his arm. “That stick you call a pocket knife is fucking filthy,” he said.

“Tetanus must be a breeze for your fucked up health anyway.”

The man sighed, pulling the boy up by his hood and pushing him forward as he opened the door. 

The familiar smell of weed and sex filled the air, and music blasted around the place. Prostitutes danced over tables, pole dancers had their asses out and about. Some people fucked in the dark corners and others puked on the floor from too much drinking and needles dripping heroin were scattered around the floor.

No one paid them both a glance as Lucky pushed the boy to the bar stools, dropping him down and asking for a bottle of vodka.

“He got you good this time,” the bartender snickered at Lucky, gesturing to the bleeding cut on his arm. 

“Kid's a pest,” he said, opening up the glass bottle and dunking a bit on his wound. He cursed under his breath at the stinging sensation, and passed the drink to Amsel.

“You broke my nose, dude,” the boy complained, soaking his hand in vodka and messily cleaning up the blood down his nostrils. “And maybe my wrist too.”

“Get over it,” Lucky sighed, taking the bottle back and chugging a big gulp down his throat. He groaned at the bitterness on his tongue, and put the bottle down. “C'mon, we need to bandage it.”

Amsel stood up, a bit dizzy from his injured head, and turned around to were the backroom was. As Lucky closed the door behind him, the music muffled down to a heavy vibration on the walls. 

“Boss,” Lucky greeted the man sat on the big table right in front of them. He was short, but very large on the shoulders. His stomach fell over his leather belt, a black suit over his body that stunk of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

“Lucky,” the boss greeted back, grey eyes trailing the boy's frame. “Amsel.”

“He broke my nose again,” the boy muttered.

“You probably deserved it,” the man said with ease, his light brown hair slicked back with gel and grease not even moving and his fingers went through it. “What do you want?”

“Cash.”

The suited man considered the boy. “I told you, you're too young to stay here.”

“Come on, Bones,” Amsel said, “I got no one to tell about your shit. The cops already hate me. You got nothing to lose by taking me in.”

The man hummed, leaning back on his leather chair and scratched his patchy stubbled jaw. “Alright, kid,” he murmured. “You can stay. Now get out of my ass.”

Lucky pat the boy in the back. “Welcome to the Pack.”

 

Amsel’s sharp eyes followed his victim as he was about to enter a bar. A wealthy, tall man wearing an expensive suit. He twisted his new dagger around his fingers, Lucky's birthday gift for his 15 th birthday last week.

It had been an year since he was accepted in the gang. His job was basically to get rid of people in debt with Bones, and guys who tried to trick him into a bad deal.

As the victim turned his back to him, he jumped forward, the blade going right under the man's chin. “Don’t move,” he warned.

The wealthy man trembled. “Take my money. Just t-take it, please let me go.”

The boy huffed. “Yeah, right.” He turned the dagger backwards and hit the man in the head with its metal handle right in the temple. The man blacked out instantly.

He grunted, holding the big guy with his long arms and whistled to call out Wheels, the guy who drove the van whenever he had to catch someone. 

The van stopped by the sidewalk, and the boy quickly pushed the man inside. “Go, go, go,” he rushed, and the driver stepped on the gas pedal. The gears of the vehicle screeched against the concrete and they drove back to the whorehouse.

As they parked in the back alley, and Amsel groaned. “Get this asshole off me,” he told Wheels, who just laughed and got out of the car.

He kicked the back car door open, and shuffled the man out. “Bones!” He shouted out. 

The back entrance opened up, and Bones has a cigarette in between his chapped lips. He snapped his fingers in a command, and 3 other guys rushed to pick up the man themselves. The boy sighed, it had been a long day.

“What are you gonna do with him?” Amsel asked.

Bones puffed smoke out of his lips. “Get some names. Ask for rescue money.”

He followed the man through the dark stairs that lead to the basement where they kept most of their drugs and cash. In the middle there was a wooden chair, where the victim has been tied down, still unconscious. 

“You knocked him down good, Amsel,” one of the guys, Skinhead, said. He had his entire skull tattooed with random shit, and a bunch of chains around his neck. 

The boy shrugged, showing the handle of his dagger. “This shit's strong, dude.”

“Wake him up,” Bones ordered.

Skinhead caught a flask of water and splashed it over the wealthy man's face. The guy gasped, lurching forward with wide eyes.

“W-Who are you?! Where am I?!” He hushed, eyes darting everywhere to every face in the room.

“I’m giving you the choice to make this quick,” Bones started, “give me some names, and your rescue will come in no time.”

“Whose names? I-I don’t know anyone, I swear,” the man tried.

“Lycidas Krallen, the most recent billionaire in town,” Boss went on, “your family must be swimming in cash. Don’t play dumb with us.”

“Listen, I-I grew up in an orphanage,” Lycidas pled. Amsel's eyes shot up. “I don’t have anyone t-to call! Just, just tell me how much you want, I-”

The man was cut short by a slap on the cheek. “Stop lying.” Skinhead said, deadpan.  

“I’m not!” Lycidas gasped. “You-You can look it up! Heather’s Orphanage, I grew up in there.”

Amsel froze. “What did you say?” He said in a low tone.

Bones rose an eyebrow at the boy. “You know the place?”

“Was dumped in there when I was born,” he murmured. Anger started to bubble down his gut. “Were you never adopted?”

Lycidas glanced at the men around him, then back at the boy. “No.”

Amsel grabbed the handle of his dagger tighter. “Typical.”

Skinhead leaned back on his chair. “So no rescue. Sucks for you.”

“Give us the bank account info, and let’s get this over with,” Bones sighed.

Lycidas dripped in sweat, panicked eyes looking at the boy. “Don’t do this kid,” he begged, “get back there. You’ll get a family, I promise-”

“Shut up!” Amsel shouted suddenly. At the corner of his vision he could see Bones watching him intently. The boy strode forward, pointing the tip of his dagger at Lycidas. “You don’t know  _ anything!” _

He went face to face with the man, eyes burning in unshed tears. “You know how it feels when you’re stuck in a place and no one comes to get you out,” he barked. “Then you go around after you turn 18, all alone, and suddenly everything is okay.”

He brought the blade closer to the man's face. “Well, guess what,” he growled, low and threatening. “Not every orphan gets well with the filthy  _ rich _ ,” he pressed the tip of the knife right bellow the man's left eye. “Not everyone has cash stuck up on their asses, telling  _ poor little boys  _ that life gets better.”

He dragged the tool across the man's nose, a sharp yell of pain coming out of him. A thin line of blood sputtered to the surface. “I don’t care how much money you have,” he went on, voice cracking, “or how much  _ better _ your life is,” he gasped, taking the knife out and bringing it down to the man's shoulders instead, stabbing him mercifully. 

Lycidas screamed. Amsel did not blink. 

“You don’t deserve it!” He shouted, tears rolling down his face. “Keep your dirty money!” He sunk the knife on his other shoulder. “Keep your get-better-wishes!” He brought the dagger down to the man's thigh. 

His breathing was ragged, head spinning with anger. He took a shaky step back, hands shaking. “Go to hell,” he croaked, then stormed out of the room.

Bones followed the boys with his eyes, then looked back at his victim, bloodied and crying pitifully. “Get the information I need,” he told Skinhead. “I’ll deal with the kid.”

The boss walked up the stairs, reaching the bar area. He could hear the bartender shouting for Amsel to stop breaking everything.

“Bones!” The worker called, “The kid is throwing everything down his throat.”

“Let the boy drink,” he sighed. “He’s less dangerous this way.”

And so the boy drank.

 

“So... Miss Pink Cheeks and dark-alley boy, huh,” Bugsy snickered. His messy mullet going down the back of his neck. “Your sex life must be crowded.”

“Shut up,” Amsel mumbled, giving the guy a slap on the ear.

“Ouch!”

_ “Shh!” _ The young man hissed, perking up at the sound of steps down the hallway. 

They were hidden behind one of the stalls of an abandoned orphanage, waiting for their victim to approach. The asshat had promised a great load of cash for boxes and boxes of hard candy only to chicken out of the deal and not show up at the trade deadline.

Bones had tracker the guy's footsteps for weeks, and finally found his safe inside the building.

The young man had a pistol ready to aim, and the same pocket knife he had gotten 4 years ago. Bugsy was right behind him for cover, an empty bag over his shoulders to catch all the money they’d get.

Amsel did not like this place at all. Having grown up in an orphanage then escaping it at 12 years old made him despise anything like it.  Memories of busy hallways full of children and the smell of burnt toast every morning made him queasy at the bottom of his stomach. 

“Dude. You need to focus,” Bugsy got him out of his memory lane.

The boy shook his head. “Yeah. This place sucks.”

The footsteps got closer, echoing across the walls full of mold and dust. Amsel’s shoulders tensed as he readied himself for the attack. 

The guy hadn’t got a chance. 

As soon as he stepped near where the two man were hidden, Amsel shot him right across his ankles. With a shout, the guy fell to the floor and reached for his own gun, firing it blindly to wherever the strike had came from.

_ “What the fuck!” _ The injured man gasped, crawling back against the wall. 

“Where’s the safe?” Amsel inquired, pointing his gun at right between the man's eyes. “I won’t ask again.”

“I told Bones to leave me alone! I don’t have his cash.”

“Bullshit.” He lowered his gun and shot the man on the knee.

_ “Fuck!” _ He cried out, blood splattering on the dirty floor.

_ “I found it,” _ Bugsy called out from upstairs. 

“You’re gonna regret this,” the man grunted, quickly reaching for something on his pocket.

Amsel's eyes widened. “It’s a bomb!” He shouted to warn his partner before a huge explosion collapsed the ceiling over him.

He coughed as the dust from the debris filled his lungs and his eyes stung dry. He wheezed weakly, trying to get the concrete off his chest. 

He dug himself out of the wreckage and squinted up. The upper floor was clearly destroyed, a huge hole on the ceiling showed where the safe probably had been along with Bugsy.

“Bugsy?” He called, grimacing at the sight in front of him. The man they had been pursuing had a sharp piece of concrete through his skull, and Bugsy's body could be seen a few feet away.

“Dude, c'mon,” he groaned, standing up and looking down at the havoc around him. He got cut all over his hands and knees, and his pistol was thrown across the wall in the explosion and broken in half.  _ Great _ .

He kicked the junk off his way, and stumbled to where his partner was. He was missing an ear, and one of his eyes has lost its lid. He poked the man with the tip of his foot. 

He was dead.

Amsel dusted his clothes off, and left the building empty handed. 

On his way back to the whorehouse, he met up with a few prostitutes that liked to hand around the block. One of them, however, was different from the other ones. White freckled skin and green eyes, Angel Face was the purest looking whore he has ever seen.

Some called her Miss Pink Cheeks, but not because of her face. She usually wore incredibly tiny shorts that brought attention to her ass, and a lacy bra that didn’t cover up much. 

The girl was nicer than the other ones around. She and Amsel hung out outside to catch a smoke every other day. She was funny, and didn’t mind the young man's job, since hers wasn’t much better. 

Her name was Ella, she was 17. And well, they kind of had a “thing”. Not that it mattered much. She was great in bed, which helped to pay her university, or something. At least that’s what she told him anyway.

“What happened to you?” Ella’s voice reached his ears. “You look like shit.”

“The guy had a bomb,” he murmured, looking down at himself. She was right, he  _ did _ look like trash. “Bugsy didn’t make it.”

Ella frowned. “That sucks,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her long, blond hair swishing with the wind. She was shorter than him, always on her tiptoes when they made out. Her little golden septum ring was barely visible on her skin.

His hands trailed down her body, cupping her buttcheeks and giving it a squeeze. “Not that you care much.”

“I don’t care about most things,” she shrugged, hips moving almost imperceptibly to his touch. “Only about you.”

He rolled his eyes. “And cash.”

She smirked. “Money doesn’t go limp.”

He rose an eyebrow. “Neither do I.”

“Not so far, at least.”

Full of concrete dust and cuts all over his body, Amsel picked the girl up, her legs around his waist, and took her to the back alley behind some bushes. He pressed her against the wall, taking off her clothes with ease.

“Shit,” he grunted against her lips as his injured hands scraped on the brick wall. “Fuck it.”

He flipped them over, and dropped on the floor so his back was against the wall and he was sat on the floor. “You do the work today, Angel Face.”

She smiled. “Oh, you’re in for a ride, dark-alley boy.” 

And he was.

A few weeks later, he was leaning against the window on his room, looking outside at Ella. She was dancing, hips going from on side to another, hypnotizing the client she was trying to catch. 

She moved with such grace, pale skin almost looking paler than normal. Her client was clearly drunk as hell, but she rejected the drink he offered her.  _ Weird _ . Ella was probably not feeling so great that night.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” A voice made him jump, immediately throwing his dagger at the door. Bones dodged it smoothly. 

The young man relaxed his shoulders. “Try knocking the next time,” he grumbled. “What do you want?”

“Ella has gotten into quite an issue,” Bones said, taking the boy’s knife out of the door it had sunk on. “ But it'd be a shame to lose such a delightful worker.”

Amsel stilled. “ What are you talking about?”

Bones sighed. “She hasn't told you, has she?”

He frowned. “What's going on?”

“You see, I provide my workers with all medication they need. Antibiotics, vaccination,” he paused, “and birth control.”

Amsel’s chest pounded suddenly. 

“I know a knocked up bitch when I see one.”

His nostrils flared. “Don’t call her that.”

“You’re her friend. Tell her to get rid of it, otherwise I will.” He threw the young man's knife back to him, and left the room.

Amsel’s head spun.  _ Fuck. Fuck! _

He looked outside the window again, and her client was gone. Ella was sat down on the sidewalk, looking a breath from passing out. 

He ran downstairs, pushing the rusty metal door open, and ran up to where she was. “Ella,” he called, and she glanced at him with panicked eyes.

He caught her by the arm, and pulled the girl to an empty corner. 

“The fuck is wrong with you, Amsel?” Ella hissed, “I’m working.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He muttered, eyes avoiding hers.

She paused. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant, Ella?” His brown eyes locked with her green ones.

“I-... I’m not-”

“Tell me the truth!” He shouted, betrayal all over his face. He lifted up his hand, and brought it down across her face.

She gasped, holding her cheek with her pale hand, and lurched forward to throw up.

“Fuck,” he hushed, catching her hair clumsy out of the way, holding it up in a ponytail.

She puked bile all over the floor, tears running down her reddened cheeks. She cried, trying to catch her breath.

He waited for her to stop, and rubbed her back comfortingly. “Why did you let this happen?” He asked, almost in a whisper.

Ella sulked in for air, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He wobbled on her feet, and the boy held her against his chest.

“I didn’t mean to,” she sobbed. 

They stayed in silence for a few minutes, both of their breaths calming down. 

“I got an UTI,” she muttered. “The antibiotics messed up the birth control.”

He placed his chin on top of her head. “So you know who the father is?”

She took a second to respond. “It’s you, Amsel.”

He closed his eyes.  _ God fucking dammit. _

“Bones will kill you,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“I won’t let him.”

She looked up to his eyes. “What could you possibly do?”

Amsel paused. “Do you want to take it off?” He asked, placing a hand on her belly.

“No,” her lips trembled. “Please don’t make me.”

“Okay,” he took a deep breath. “I’ll get you money,” he took her face in his hands. “And then you run.”

 

“Kid, what are you doing?” Lucky asked. They were sat at the bar stools, the place empty and closed for daytime. 

“I’m not a kid,” he mumbled once again, the screech of metal against his blade making him cringe. “I’m almost 20.”

The red-bandana man hummed. “That doesn’t explain why are you sharpening your knife at 2 o’clock in the evening.”

Amsel shrugged. “You never know when you’re gonna need a good, sharp knife.”

“That’s dark,” he snorted. “Well, have fun. I’ll catch some smokes outside.” He got up the stool, and walked up to the rusty door.

“Sweet, sweet cancer.”

Lucky winked. “If death was so bad, God wouldn’t make us all go through it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe God is just an asshole like that.”

“I guess I’ll have to beat him up myself,” Lucky said, closing up the door behind him. 

_ Finally alone _ . He’d have to be quick about this.

He held his dagger close to his chest, and walked across the hallways of the whorehouse. He knew where Bones kept his stuff, sneaking around here and there during all those years.

He looked over his shoulders the entire time, and got in the room where there was a safe. He didn’t know the code to open it up.

There were wardrobes full of documents and paperwork, it’d take forever to find anything in there. He cursed under his breath.

He was about to give up and think of a plan be when he felt something cold touch the back of his head.

“You were always a sneaky kid,” Bones' voice said close to his ear. “Drop the knife.”

“I just need some cash. I’m fucking begging you,” Amsel pled, frozen in place.

“A skilled man never begs,” Bones said, pulling the trigger against Amsel's head.

The sound of an empty gun caught the man by surprise. Amsel smirked.

“A skilled man always checks the ammo,” he said, patting his pocket full of bullets he had stolen from the boss' stock.

“Son of a b-”  _ Slash.  _ The young man sunk his dagger back to Bones' side. He turned around, kicking him to the ground.

Bones groaned loudly, throwing his useless gun across the room, using both hands to cover his wound. 

Amsel straddled the man's torso, his bloodied dagger close to Bones' right eye. “I always hated your guts.”

“Fucking ungrateful,” Bones spat, “I took you in when no one else did!”

He brought the dagger directly to the man's eye. He screamed in agony.

“Your own mother threw you in the garbage!” He howled. “You should thank me for giving you  _ anything _ at all!”

His head throbbed. “Shut up!” He brought the knife down again. “Shut up!” He stabbed his skull again and again, blood splattering all over his face. His hands cramped, his shoulders tensed, and he sunk the blade one last time, leaving it there to rot within the dead body in front of him.

His ears rang loudly. Bones was right. No one took him in. No one loved him. 

Love was merely an obstacle. 

Maybe God  _ was _ an asshole after all.

Like something inside him had broken, his eyes opened void of any anger. He was calm, and he was torn. 

He was never a man who fit in the usual individual’s box. But that day, like a switch that had been always there was turned, he felt like a new man.

He looked down at the bloody havoc he had done, and he couldn’t feel a drop of regret. He took one of the grenades he had stuffed down his pockets for emergency, and blew up the entire safe.

The explosion was so loud he felt deaf for a whole minute. He eyes were shut closed, and his clothes were burned and ripped apart. He coughed, a stinging pain on his chest.

He stood up on shaky legs, and stumbled into the safe. Piles and piles of filthy, corrupt money were stacked up to the hundreds. 

A smirked pulled the corner of his lips, and he laughed. 

 

“Boss,” Lucky's voice called behind the door of the office. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

“I’m busy.”

“It’s Ella, sir.”

Amsel paused. “Let her in.”

The door opened, and there she was. The most beautiful 21 year old woman he had ever seen. 

Her bright, blond hair was tied in a high ponytail, and she wore a green, flowy dress that made her eyes pop. 

And in her arms, there was a baby.

He had pale, freckled skin, just like his mother. His eyes were a bright green, and his hair had light, brown curls that fell over his face.

“I see he’s going well,” Amsel commented.

“I came in here to say goodbye,” she said, the boy sucking on a white pacifier looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Is everything okay with the flight and your new stay?”

“Yes,” she said, “thanks to you.”

He smiled. He had been giving Ella part of the gang money since he had found it in the safe. The kid's new father knew nothing about the whole deal. Neither did anyone in the Pack, for safety reasons.

“Do not contact me again,” he advised, “have a new, happy life. You deserve it.”

He walked closer to them, and touched the boy's rosy cheeks. “He looks a lot like you.”

She smiled. “He’s a happy little boy.”

His face went serious. “I won’t let anything happen to him, or to you. I promise.”

“I’ll try to keep him away from this life. But your gang is... everywhere.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you.”

He sighed, fixing his blood red tie around his neck. “What’s his name again?”

“Andreas. Andreas Devlin,” she told him. “Goodbye, Damien.”

He grimaced a little. “Don’t call me that.”

“Do the others still call you Amsel?” She asked with a smirk.

He huffed. “Not exactly,” he said, guiding her to the door. 

“They call me Dark.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Got em!
> 
> Leave a comment down below, those make my day! 
> 
> [My nsfw tumblr!](plutosin.tumblr.com) You can send me art and questions about the shot there 
> 
> Art! |[1](https://trashcan-dirt.tumblr.com/post/185725814210/ella-from-the-newest-biker-shot-sob)| |[2](https://trashcan-dirt.tumblr.com/post/185735760996/its-cursed-oclock)| |[3](https://trashcan-dirt.tumblr.com/post/185777519921/ella-and-a-bonus-andreas-v)|


End file.
